


Big, Vast, Complicated, and Ridiculous

by htebazytook



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crack, Crossover, Established Relationship, F/M, Gift Fic, Het, Humor, M/M, Romance, Slash, Smut, good omens exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-08
Updated: 2012-12-08
Packaged: 2017-11-25 19:19:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>The prompt called for a <i>Doctor Who</i> crossover with our heroes being put off by the Doctor.  Time-frame is now for Crowley and Aziraphale, and soon after <i>The Angels Take Manhattan</i> for the Doctor.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Big, Vast, Complicated, and Ridiculous

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt called for a _Doctor Who_ crossover with our heroes being put off by the Doctor. Time-frame is now for Crowley and Aziraphale, and soon after _The Angels Take Manhattan_ for the Doctor.

**Title:** Big, Vast, Complicated, and Ridiculous  
 **Recipient:** [](http://chinquix.livejournal.com/profile)[**chinquix**](http://chinquix.livejournal.com/)  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)**htebazytook**  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Pairings:** Crowley/Aziraphale  
 **Author's Notes:** The prompt called for a _Doctor Who_ crossover with our heroes being put off by the Doctor. Time-frame is now for Crowley and Aziraphale, and soon after _The Angels Take Manhattan_ for the Doctor.

  
Crowley's phone wakes him up.

" _Crowley, you'd better get over here._ "

" _Listen angel, you're perfectly capable of scaring off the customers yourself. I've seen you single-handedly put a menacing gaggle of children off the joy of reading for life._ "

" _It's not a customer . . ._ " Aziraphale laughs nervously. " _Not as such._ "

" _Okay, well you sort that out, then, and I'll just go back to sleep. Sound good? Good. I'm hanging up now._ "

" _Wait! He's not really a customer, but, well, I think he might be one of your, ahem . . . friends._"

" _Come again?_ "

" _Oh you know . . . one of the boys from the office—oh, sir! Sir, really there's no need to continue ringing the bell. Yes, I can see you waving there, yes, hello, won't be a moment!_ "

Crowley's already heading out the door, adjusting his sunglasses and snapping a meticulously pressed black suit into existence. " _I'll be there in five. Don't make any sudden miracles._ "

" _Rather a devilishly handsome fellow, this customer . . . _"

" _Yeah, I got it, Aziraphale._ "

Speed demon came with the territory, a bit, but this was excessive even for Crowley. Snow was melting beneath the tires of the Bentley, probably, and it wasn't even _on_ fire this time. And honestly, was London always this congested on a bloody Thursday? Crowley veered onto the pavement perhaps more than was strictly necessary in his haste, begrudgingly avoided hitting any pedestrians just because he'd never hear the end of it from Aziraphale. They hadn't spoken for months, but at the first sign of trouble he rang Crowley up and whined for his help?

Okay, admittedly a potential demonic threat was the sort of thing Aziraphale would logically think to contact Crowley about, but still. You didn't just end a radio silence as soon as _someone_ decided their current need outweighed their recent iciness toward their more or less constant companion this past eternity.

And okay, fine, iciness followed by bouts of reckless drinking followed by iciness was at this point a tried and true pattern with the two them. But _still_.

Nothing looks amiss outside of Aziraphale's bookshop, and Crowley can't sense anything particularly infernal as he walks up to the door. And he'll be severely disappointed if he doesn't at least get a bout or two of reckless drinking out of this.

Aziraphale stands motionless in the middle of the shop, bathed in the glow of a lamp by the register which barely pierces the wintry gloom of the day. It isn't snowing outside, but it feels like it. His hair is curlier than usual, like he's been running his hands through it, which he always does when he's especially upset. He doesn't look at Crowley, eyes trained on the enormous blue box parked smack in the middle of the children's books.

Crowley casts a glance around. As far as he can tell, they're quite alone. He approaches cautiously nonetheless. "Doing a bit of redecorating? I have to say, it doesn't really go with the shabby-chic vibe you've embraced for the past . . . always."

Aziraphale looks at him, now, wide-eyed and clearly on the verge of a nervous breakdown, which Crowley would really rather not deal with considering that the last one had ultimately culminated in a sudden fit of rage followed by the creation of _Glee_. "It just . . . materialized, for lack of a better word. And then I came out here and he was just gone and . . . what is it, Crowley?"

Crowley had trusted to fate that his hair was just messy enough to be rakish, but he can't help smoothing it down right now because Aziraphale won't stop looking expectantly at him. "Damned if I know. Well, okay, scratch that—the point is, I _don't_ know." Crowley approaches the box. "I _do_ remember these, though. You call the police in them. Totally obsolete now, of course."

"Not _everyone_ has a brain phone, Crowley."

"You're quite correct, angel—I don't think anyone's got one of those," Crowley says, poking the blue box suspiciously. Nothing happens. "I haven't seen one of these in, what, half a century at least . . ."

Aziraphale frowns. "I'm sure I used one not long ago."

"Oh, indeed? When was the last time _you_ made a phone call from a booth?"

"Er . . . blast, I'm not entirely sure, actually. When was all that Sputnik business going on?"

"So sorry to interrupt," a little man in a bow-tie interrupts, "really I am, but who might you be?"

Crowley puts on his best menacing glare, which is naturally rather impressive. "Who's asking?"

"The Doctor, I'm the Doctor—time traveler, socialite, fashion pioneer—yes, hello, nice to meet you both and, _actually_ . . ." The Doctor whips out a little metal stick that goes _whirr_ and points it at them, then holds it very close to his face. "Oh, you see, that is fascinating you two are _fascinating_ , really, and what . . . exactly are you, though? Not sure. Fiddling with humanity like nobody's business, yes, but I'm afraid that's not normally very much help narrowing it down when it comes to aliens."

"I am certainly not an, an _alien_ ," Aziraphale says, overly affronted and looking to Crowley for support. Crowley just folds his arms and turns his glaring up a notch.

"I am!" The Doctor beams. "And this alien is wondering why you—not an alien, of course, or so you say—are giving off such un-human-y readings and, more to the point, rerouting my TARDIS (rerouting it away from a galaxy-renowned resort where they put drinks _in_ umbrellas, I might add, and to be honest with you I'm more than a little cross about it) _straight_ over to your shop, instead."

Aziraphale blinks. "TARDIS."

The Doctor gives the police box a fond little pat. "Yes, there she is, positively saucy old girl when something catches her ey—well . . . sensors. Never mind, never mind—the point is that she's brought me here because something's gone wrong, and you're in luck." The Doctor's grinning like mad man. "Not to brag or anything but that's sort of my _thing_."

"Right, right. So let's cut the crap, shall we?" Crowley says. "Where did you come from?" No charred floorboards in sight, and Crowley really doubts this guy's a demon, anyway. He doesn't feel like one, but then again that outfit he's wearing . . .

"TARDIS! Bigger on the inside, space-time bendy, you know the drill—but never mind all that, because this is about you, not me. This is about me finding out _what_ . . ." And he peers closer at them both. "You are up to. Particularly you, dusty."

Crowley might snicker at that a little, but luckily Aziraphale's too busy sputtering to notice.

The Doctor starts pacing to and fro in a manner that makes Crowley dizzy. "Unusually high readings across the board and they're all coming from here. Why? What have you been doing . . . sorry, didn't catch your name?"

"Aziraphale," Aziraphale says, and Crowley can't believe he'd given his real name. "This is Crowley."

"Oh cheers, angel."

"Aziraphale," the Doctor says, creepily warmly, before resuming his pacing. "And Crowley. Pleasure. Now, the thing is I've done a bit of research, and it turns out that this spot, this very spot, has in fact been the source of a lot of unexplained fluctuations for rather a long time, but notably moreso in the past few months."

Aziraphale attempts some carefree laughter. "Oh, well, you know, quotas and . . . well I've got a job to do, haven't I? It's not as though I've done anything _evil_ . . ."

Crowley watches him. "Quotas, huh? That what you've been so occupied with lately?"

"Oh you are _not_ helping, Crowley."

The Doctor nods sympathetically. "Of course you've got a job to do, everyone's go a job to do, however I'm not sure I'm one hundred percent crystal clear on what your job might be . . . ?"

"Listen, Doctor," Crowley says. "Can we stop playing games, here? You have a job and we have jobs, details not so much important really, so let's just live and let live, right?"

"See, now, that's where the problem is . . . Crowley, was it? I can't leave it alone, now, because your friend here has been meddling in human affairs, fixed points in time notwithstanding, and it's time to nip that in the bud before something more dramatic happens as a result of it other than a couple of misplaced hedgehogs. Don't worry, I did find them, none the worse for wear. Bit more sort of purplish, though . . . "

Crowley speaks louder to get his attention. "So you're not human, and I really don't think you're like us, so please enlighten me, Doctor, exactly what else is there?"

Quietly, solemnly, the Doctor says, "I'm the one who shows up when it's the end of the world." He keeps dramatically still for a moment, but then it breaks and he's pacing again. "And, yes, at other times too of course. But that's the impressive bit, so I do try to open with that. It is impressive, though, isn't it?"

"Oh, so you’re the Antichrist, huh? Been there, done that, mate, sorry to disappoint you. Also you do look about twelve."

"Oh, I'm older than I look," the Doctor says, all twinkly-eyed.

Crowley rolls his eyes. "Please. Were you there at Creation?"

"Expect so, yes. Which planet?"

". . . Earth?"

"Oh _right_ , right," the Doctor says. "Which one?"

Crowley exchanges looks with Aziraphale. "Just. Just tell me this, then—whose side are you on?"

"Well I dunno about _sides_ . . . the side of humans, how's that? Actually on second thought that's somewhat racist—the side of justice, then! Yes, there we are. Lovely. You?"

"I'm an angel," Aziraphale says. "He's a demon."

Crowley facepalms, and Aziraphale hisses, "If it'll shut him up. Clearly the man knows more than is good for him, already, and in any case we can always . . . readjust his memory, if need be."

"Angels and demons?" the Doctor says. "Nah."

Aziraphale clears his throat. "Pardon?"

"No such thing. Don't believe in them. Sorry."

Crowley waits for the punchline, but there's none coming. " _What_?"

"Don't believe in them, never have. It's not complicated."

Crowley snorts. "Yeah, well, it's not really a matter of belief when you've got one of each standing right in front of you."

"What's seen isn't necessarily what's true," the Doctor says enigmatically.

Crowley rolls his eyes. "You can just cool it with the nuggets of wisdom any time. I get enough of that from Aziraphale here."

"So you're the same, then," the Doctor says. "Same stock, two of you. Well that's brilliant. Peas in a pod."

Crowley is preparing to say something derisive when Aziraphale bursts into laughter. "Crowley and I? Oh, no. Absolutely not, _no_ , nope. Quite different, I assure you."

"Well, I wouldn't say _that_." Aziraphale looks at him. "I mean, not exactly."

"You can _not_ be serious, Crowley."

"I'm just saying he has a point, okay? Same stock."

Aziraphale's so snippy today. "Yes, and you never fail to remind me of out how _very_ much that annoys you."

"Oh yeah?" Crowley snaps. "Yeah, well. Well, you never fail to remind me of how inconvenient it is to be associated with demons, all of whom sit supposedly around on their arses playing the victim and demanding stuff."

"No, that's just you, dear."

In the background, the Doctor's been rambling. ". . . then again I suppose it's possible your species came to this planet so long ago that by now the ancestors of the original settlers don't even remember where they came from. And on top of that, it is also entirely possible that after so long you gave in to the humans' superstitious explanations for you and started believing them yourselves, and that's how we get _real_ angels and demons—oh, that is clever, isn't it? Oh, I do hope that's what's happened . . . "

"Young man," Aziraphale says, "you are way out of line."

"Yeah," Crowley chimes in, relieved to be on the same side, again. Fighting Aziraphale was unbelievably tedious. "And anyway all of that's _completely_ ridiculous. It is completely ridiculous isn't it?"

"Completely," Aziraphale assures him, but he looks a touch horrified.

"Crowley, Aziraphale." The Doctor holds out his arms, placating. "Let's stop this bickering, shall we? No use wasting time with our friends by bickering. All I want to know is why your shop lit up like a Christmas tree and lured me here in the first place."

"Ugh, what is _taking_ so long out here? Oh, _hell_ o." A curvy woman with wild hair and a perpetual smirk emerges from the blue box. The smirk morphs into an irrepressible grin at the sight of the little crowd. "Boys! It's been too _long_ , really I . . . a _ha_ , some vacant expressions there, I see that now. Hang on a tick." She somehow manages to produce a little blue book from her skin-tight everything, begins flipping through it.

The Doctor is literally bouncing on his feet. "River, now is _really_ not the best time t—"

"Shh." She presses a finger to the Doctor's lips, which he crosses his eyes to glare at. "Ah," she says, snapping the book shut before smiling at Crowley and Aziraphale. "Not quite there, yet, I'm afraid. Chin up, you two, that's all I'm going to say."

"River."

"I'd thought you were taking me to a fabulous twenty-five star spa, Doctor?" She snags one of his suspenders and drags him into the doorway of the police box. "Think of me as a deus ex machina."

"Oh, you're without a doubt the cleverest deus ex machina in history, and certainly the most striking in a dress, but listen it's just—"

"Edgar Allan certainly thought so. Oh, but that's a story for another time." She pinches the Doctor's cheek. "Come along, now. We've some wedded bliss to attend to, I believe?"

"But they're—"

"They're _fine_ ," she says. "You're going to leave them be. See you later, boys," she adds with a wink.

The blue door closes with the Doctor opening his mouth to protest, and the police box creaks like crazy before fading out of existence altogether.

Snow starts to fall during the awkward, stunned silence that ensues. After a minute Crowley clears his throat. "Bit disconcertingly like our love child or something, that bloke, what with the cheekbones and the tweed . . ." Crowley shuts up, though, because the Doctor was a self-professed time traveler and who knew what these bloody humans would come up with in the future.

Aziraphale doesn't say anything.

"So. Care to explain the excessive miracling?"

"Not particularly."

"Aziraphale, I'm not going away like him. Come on, how many embarrassing things have I confessed to you over the years?"

"Bragged about or confessed to?"

". . . Shared."

"Just trying to balance things out, I suppose."

Crowley thinks he knows. He asks anyway, "What do you mean? The economy or something? 'Cause no matter what you may think, that one wasn't me. Humans did that all on their own."

"What happened with . . . " He gestures between them. "Never mind all that. I just thought it prudent to make sure things were balanced out."

Crowley looks out the window since Aziraphale won't look at him. It's brighter outside than it is in here, somehow, despite the overcast sky. In here, it's all dulled gray light. He makes sure to keep his tone tetchy: "Had I realized one little sin would do a number on you like this . . ."

"You realized perfectly well, Crowley."

"So, what, if I give in and help a little old lady across the street or something I'll need to ensure that all of One Direction has a bad hair day simultaneously just to 'balance things out'? Bit extreme, if you ask me . . . "

"Stop it. It's not the same."

"No no, apparently it is, though. You certainly seem to think so. And you know something? Our association with each other in general is probably the greater transgression, here. So I'm not sure what you're planning on doing about that to assuage your guilt, but I for one am not going to suddenly go crazy and overcompensate for every rule we broke by cooperating in the first place."

"It's different for you!" Oh, Aziraphale has had enough. "You run around committing sins of the flesh with just everyone, I've no doubt, and _your_ sort consider it commendable."

"Not even going to address your obviously insanely off base insinuation that I'm the world's biggest slut, but let me ask you something: do you really regret it _that_ much? I mean, seriously? How many little sins have you committed? Can't we just forget about it and move on like, you know, we _already agreed to_? It's not a big deal!"

"Yes," Aziraphale enunciates. "It _is_."

Crowley sighs. "Look, whatever, do your thing, go on a guilt-induced miracling spree and answer to our new alien nuisance with a fashion sense shockingly more deplorable than yours. But don't expect me to refrain from balancing them out with temptations, thus inducing you to do more miracles, thus inducing me to do more temptations, and then by the end we'll be trying to claim each other's work just to stay caught up and my hair will probably turn gray from stress and you'll not have time to read another book again _just_ because you regret sleeping with me _once_. And, evidently, everything else." Crowley makes for the door, intending on speeding around the city for a couple of hours to stir up some road rage, for starters.

Aziraphale catches Crowley's sleeve. "It's not that."

"Seems like it is, actually. Let me _go_ , angel "

"It's that it _is_ a big deal."

"Er, yeah, I heard. Listen, can you just let me go, already?"

"That's the problem," Aziraphale says, then kisses Crowley against the shop window, which is cold and seeps into Crowley's blood as much as the heat of Aziraphale's mouth does. Before Crowley's quite acclimated to the situation, Aziraphale pulls back to look at him, takes Crowley's sunglasses off and folds them and stows them on the windowsill.

Aziraphale has looked many ways over the years. He'd been humble in Jerusalem and ostentatious in Rome. He'd had frizzy hair all through the Dark Ages, and perpetually smudged glasses up til now, except that now he's setting them down next to Crowley's. Crowley never really sees what Aziraphale looks like. Instead he remembers how he'd looked in the Garden—he'd looked exactly like he was, back then. Today he was unassuming and secretive, but in the Garden he'd been awkward and terrified, naked and afraid and a little bitchy but he'd very clearly been an angel, all glowy and gorgeous with self-righteousness leaking from every pore. That's how Aziraphale really is. It had been disconcerting for centuries, those remembered echoes of how Aziraphale really was, but Crowley had got used to it.

He isn't sure he wants to know how Aziraphale sees him, but he hopes it's how Crowley looks and not how he is.

Aziraphale could change his mind about this at any moment, so Crowley seizes him by his unfortunate-looking shirt and drags him into another kiss, pressed all up against Crowley so that there's pliant heat in front of him and an icy unyielding window to the rest of the world behind him. It's a bit exciting to think Aziraphale is willing to maul him against such a terribly transparent surface like this, especially since retribution from Above was apparently a concern of his.

For Crowley's part, he has no idea whether to be concerned or not. On the one hand it could be looked at as tempting the enemy, but it could just as easily be interpreted as fraternization. Depended on the mood of whoever received the inquiry on their desk one firey afternoon in the Circle of Hell that handled paperwork every third Tuesday, and on whether or not they'd met Crowley. The truth was that Crowley _had_ started out tempting Aziraphale, out of bitterness or jealousness at first, then out of boredom, then out of habit. His intentions weren't good—selfish, at the very least—so it probably wasn't _proper_ fraternizing . . .

It _was_ proper kissing, however, and Crowley had to wonder (again) if Aziraphale was naturally gifted in this area or if . . . well, he wasn't sure he wanted to know, actually. Could Aziraphale even have had had time to get as close to a human as he was to Crowley?

Suddenly, Aziraphale seems to remember that snogging your sworn enemy in broad daylight is generally considered bad form, pulls back again and his eyes are heavy-lidded and his mouth looks recklessly human. He doesn't say anything, just leads Crowley into the bowels of the shop.

Between two shadowy shelves Aziraphale stops, and whether or not this had been his destination Crowley gets overwhelmed with the idea of him, with his books and his stupid flyaway hair and his even more stupidly wanting Crowley, so he shoves the Aziraphale up against a bookshelf and gets an indignant little grunt for his trouble, but it's followed almost immediately by a helplessly drawn-out groan that vibrates from Aziraphale's mouth and into Crowley's. Aziraphale's warm fingers in Crowley's carefully disheveled hair and Aziraphale's hips nudging back whenever Crowley grinds subtly against him.

It's chilly in the shop, surrounded by old wood floors and walls and heat on low considering Aziraphale doesn't exactly need it, and whenever Crowley's eyes sliver open for a moment he's struck by the dismal, increasingly snowy moodiness that presses in from outside. It's silent in here, feels like a bubble away from everything past and present, except for the sounds of kissing and the occasional moan that escapes one or the other of them.

Aziraphale's hand dances down Crowley's chest til his palm is flat against his halfway erection, and Crowley breaks the kiss to gasp. Aziraphale takes the opportunity to shove him against the opposite shelf, beginning work on Crowley's trousers while kissing his neck softly in a slow, sure manner that leaves Crowley breathless.

"Screwing against your beloved books? This is symbolic, somehow."

Aziraphale doesn't speak, kisses his mouth to make sure Crowley doesn't either and wraps his hand around Crowley's cock.

It shouldn't feel so good. Other things feel better, undoubtedly. Crowley can think of scores of encounters that had been more exciting than this tiny, boring moment with Aziraphale, all of which had had notably satisfying conclusions. This is so simple and so unimaginative it's barely worth even doing, especially with the angel, of all people. Still, Crowley's horribly compelled to kiss Aziraphale perhaps for the next five hundred years, so he tilts his chin up to get started.

Aziraphale won't let Crowley kiss him too deeply at first, and it's after a warm while that Aziraphale's tongue meanders into Crowley's mouth, but even then Aziraphale sets a slow, careful pace, like he's doing with his hand, and all of it combined is both perfect and really awfully cruel.

Crowley loops his arms around Aziraphale's neck while they kiss, which makes him feel delicious, and which also allows him to make a complicated gesture with his hands that Aziraphale doesn't quite catch until he grinds his abruptly unclothed cock against Crowley's accidentally, shuddering, and shuddering some more when Crowley grins and reaches down.

Crowley thumbs over the head of Aziraphale's cock to spread moisture around, then jerks him hard and fast since he'd seemed to like that the last time, and indeed Aziraphale's forehead drops to Crowley's shoulder, sweaty and smashing his curls, and he gasps against Crowley's neck ticklishly as they challenge each other to keep up. Aziraphale goes faster and more while Crowley goes slower and lighter just to call his bluff, but Aziraphale only smirks and makes it so their cocks are rubbing together, then wraps his hand around them both and thrusts a little for good measure.

Now that is _definitely_ good, and Crowley wants to laugh or say something or throw Aziraphale against the nearest surface and fuck him senseless, but there's not time for that now that Crowley's unnecessary pulse is hammering and he's nearing orgasm much too quickly.

"I'm so fucking close," Crowley whines. " _Fuck_. I'm so, _mm_ , Azira— _fuck_ —"

Aziraphale kisses him, completely passionate and exactly the way he got about injustice or books or Crowley being late for their meetings but rather more carnally and directed undiluted all at Crowley for once. Crowley kisses him back so hard that their heads lean back and forth with the force of it, and eventually Aziraphale's free hand snags in Crowley's hair to hold him still while he pillages Crowley's mouth. Aziraphale is basically doing all the work now, and Crowley's too shaky with want to even thrust into the friction at this point, the heady reality of succumbing to Aziraphale in this way, the idea of not having to think and just having to feel and Aziraphale maybe even needing him exactly as much and fuck, fuck, _fuck_ this feels too good . . .

Crowley comes, writhing and muttering nonsense against Aziraphale's cheek. When he opens his eyes again all that's there is familiar Aziraphale gone red-faced and gorgeous-eyed and desperate-looking and suddenly it's very easy not to bask in his own endorphins, and to instead use his come to slick Aziraphale's straining cock, and then to pump it steadily and watch Aziraphale's eyes closing woozily.

"Aziraphale?"

His eyes go from scrunching up to opening up, and they find Crowley. "I . . . just, _faster_."

Crowley does it faster, watches Aziraphale's mouth fall open on moan after moan, then incorporates a twist on the upstroke and Aziraphale clutches at him and looks right at him and comes, tense and silent and collapsing against Crowley completely.

"I've hated you for so long," Aziraphale says vaguely. Crowley doesn't know how to stop looking at him. _When you really love_ , he'd quoted at Crowley years ago, _you are able to look at  someone you want to eat and not eat them._ Crowley wants to say something like that.

"And here I'd thought the last couple hundred years were spent in relative harmony. To be fair, I was asleep for a decent chunk of it." Aziraphale's chest rises and falls against Crowley's, and Crowley wonders why they even bother with breathing.

"Crowley." Aziraphale licks his lips, which are so bruised, focuses somewhere to the left of Crowley's face. "We—"

There's a creaking noise, barely audible at first, but growing louder by the minute.

"Shit," Crowley mutters, scrambling to straighten up while Aziraphale does the same. It's mere seconds later that the Doctor bounces up to them.

"Hallo, Crowley-and-Aziraphale," the Doctor says, searching their faces. "2012 still, yes? Yes. Good. I hate to turn up out of the blue uninvited, but really this won't take a moment. I've just got to tell you: the pretzels are _not_ for eating. It'll make sense, I promise you, but please please _please_ remember that above all we are _not_ eating the pretzels. Got it? Got that filed away? Excellent, well . . . " He pats the both of them on the shoulder, says, "Til next time," and is gone again.

Crowley follows, and is just in time to see the blue box fading away again. When he turns his head, Aziraphale is there looking perfectly put together and usual and virtuous except for a pair of glazed-over eyes and an excess of sweat at his temples.

Crowley can't stand the silence. "Listen, you wanna get out of here? There's a place that does brunch that's just opened up I've been meaning to try . . . "

"I . . . " He's gearing up to be contrary, but somewhere along the way the fight goes out of him, and it's just Aziraphale looking like himself looking at Crowley without much motive, at all. "Actually . . . well, that sounds quite lovely, actually."

Crowley grins. "So come on."

It isn't until Crowley's pulling the Bentley out onto the street that he realizes he's forgotten his glasses in the shop.

Ah, well. Too late to go back now.


End file.
